“Have you seen Mrs. Borisoff?” she asked.

“She’s down at the beck, with the gentleman,” answered the little girl, pointing with a smile to the deep, leaf-hidden glen half a mile away.

Irene lingered for a few minutes and went in again.

At luncheon-time Helen had not returned.  The meal was delayed for her, more than a quarter of an hour.  When at length she entered, Irene saw she had been hastening; but Helen’s features seemed to betray some other cause of discomposure than mere unpunctuality.  Having glanced at her once or twice, Irene kept an averted face.  Neither spoke as they sat down to table; only when they had begun the meal did Helen ask whether her friend felt better.  The reply was a brief affirmative.  For the rest of the time they talked a little, absently, about trivialities; then they parted; without any arrangement for the afternoon.

Irene’s mind was in that state of perilous commotion which invests with dire significance any event not at once intelligible.  Alone in her chamber, she sat brooding with tragic countenance.  How could Helen’s behaviour be explained?  If she had met Piers Otway and spent part of the morning with him, why did she keep silence about it?  Why was she so late in coming home, and what had heightened her colour, given that peculiar shiftiness to her eyes?

She rose, went to Helen’s door, and knocked.

“May I come in?”

“Of course—­I have a letter to write by post-time.”

“I won’t keep you long,” said Irene, standing before her friend’s chair, and regarding her with grave earnestness.  “Did Mr. Otway call this morning?”

“He was coming; I met him outside, and told him you weren’t very well.  And”—­she hesitated, but went on with a harder voice and a careless smile—­“we had a walk up the glen.  It’s very lovely, the higher part.  You must go.  Ask him to take you.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Irene coldly.  “Why should I ask Mr. Otway to take me?”

“I beg your pardon.  You are become so critical of words and phrases.  To take us, I’ll say.”

“That wouldn’t be a very agreeable walk, Helen, whilst you are in this strange mood.  What does it all mean?  I never foresaw the possibility of misunderstandings such as this between us.  Is it I who am to blame, or you?  Have I offended you?”

“No, dear,” was the dreamy response.

“Then why do you seem to wish to quarrel with me?”

Helen had the look of one who strugglingly overcomes a paroxysm of anger.  She stood up.

“Would you leave me alone for a little, Irene?  I’m not quite able to talk.  I think we’ve both of us been doing too much—­overtaxing ourselves.  It has got on my nerves.”

“Yes I will go,” was the answer, spoken very quietly.  “And to-morrow morning I will return to London.”

She moved away.

“Irene!”

“Yes——?”